Bandaged Shoulder
by magnipisika16
Summary: They said that the world needed a new hero, but nobody said that the hero had to be you- No specified pairing. Reader x Red.


Bandaged Shoulder—

You wince slightly as the cloth-like bandage is wrapped over your shoulder a little too tightly. But if ever the pain is enough to require me to stop, you don't say so.

Instead you thank me with a mild peck on the cheek, toppled together with your sentimental words like, "What can I do without you?" or "You're the best." or anything that falls along that line.

Indeed. What _will _you do without me?

I wonder if you'd be dead.

You offer me a cup of tea. I don't answer, and you cheerfully take it off as a "yes". That, as it seems, you have this perception that the tension, the pain, and the trauma can all be eased up with a soothing hot cup of boiling leaves.

I put the kit away. I could offer my help, but I know it would only end in futile.

You always wanted to do things on your own. No matter how impossible it all may seem.

And I—no matter how much you say I am important—know you will never listen to me.

It's hard.

You just keep on going. You never give up.

Why do you…?

I get that you want to help and all that and you want everybody to be safe, but, what about us…? What about those people who are actually _safe _when _you _are around? What about them?

What about me…?

You make a mistake of stretching your bad arm (But of course. You're right-handed—it was only natural) and the bandages begin to fall apart, revealing that gruesome, bleeding shoulder to me again, reminding me of how _selfless _you were. How heroic. How amazing.

How… How fragile…

I rush to your side, and you immediately calm me down by spraying words like, "I'll be alright" or "No biggie", as if those words will do you any good. I have already been bombarded by those crazy questions, and neither of us is ready for what could happen—what _would _happen if you're not careful the next time.

But you'll neglect them anyway. You will possibly—most _assuredly_—not care.

You're ignorant like that.

So, instead, I wordlessly fix it again, whilst you intimately watch, as if that stare of yours can fix anything.

It doesn't. It wouldn't.

Because no matter how much you stare or no matter how much you smile, there will still be the fact that I have to hold on to that feeble branch of hope that the next time you jump off to a place, with your feet and your hands ahead of your mind like you always do, you _still _would come out breathing. And I have to face that reality that anytime, that branch could fall off, and I may never ever see you again.

And a lot of good that will that do to the people you save who, by the way, never even care enough to know your name. To know how you've been.

To at least try and acknowledge you as human, for crying out loud!

But that's what being a hero's all about, right? You risk your life for a number of people you never meet or brush against in the market, and vice versa. You let your body get scarred and mutilated for a reason not even _you_ can identify for me.

You… You flirt with Death at such a regular basis I'm surprised Death hasn't dropped head over heels in love with you yet, but you never gave me your motivation.

I bit my lips as you wince again.

They said that the world needed a new hero, but nobody said that the hero had to be you. No choice has been done, and no options were laid out for the people to choose from.

Or maybe there was. I wouldn't know. But perhaps, there _really _was—some almighty hand holding a giant fishbowl filled with names of sorry souls that would have to fulfill the advocacy of masochism that is shrouded beneath the mists of this vague idea they call "Selflessness" or "Heroism" or any other fanciful terms you people can think of.

But I call it masochism. And you just _had _to be the lucky bastard who advocates it all to the people. And the people, unless they are directly affected, will never care.

How many times must I tell you that?!

You touch my trembling hands with your other—_good _—hand and you ask me what's wrong. Like you always do. I could tell you all those that's been flooding through my mind, but that would only be repetitive.

So, I choose to say nothing. Like I always do. Instead, I finish fixing it all up and just resided to resting my head above it, careful not to put too much pressure that will cause pain.

I tell you my usual line—_those _words, and I can feel from the intensity of your breath that you nod, and you return them to me, with your fond, childlike tone, stroking my head with that same hand that holds a weapon like a mad man.

I hear a small crack in your voice as you say my name, and I have gotten used to it.

Because I know that when I raise my head to see if there is any sense of brokenness in those eyes of yours, you'll only return me your prevaricating smiles.


End file.
